Molly's Study In Pink
by Lady Silverbird
Summary: With John doting on Mary, Sherlock has taken to having Molly on cases with him. He never expected her to be so good at deductions, though, and he never thought that she could make him blush. A short fluffy Sherlolly bit.


"It was Carlton," said Molly as they walked out of the house.

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, staring down at the tiny form of the pathologist beside him, not because she had interrupted him...but because she was _right._ Seeing as how John was barely available anymore, fawning over his seven-months-pregnant wife, Molly had begun accompanying him on cases. He found that people tended to speak easier around someone like her, someone with a friendly smile and kind words and comforting gestures, but she was also proving to be a fair hand at making her own deductions. She was better than John, even, though nowhere near Sherlock's caliber, and approximately 9 times out of 10 she was correct. "Tell me, Dr. Hooper, how you came to this conclusion, if you don't mind."

"Easy. Left-handed, muscle damage in the wrist, small scratches in the fabric of his shirt sleeves, a missing button on his coat, the dirt in his boot treads, and the faint traces of lipstick left on the inside crease of his shirt collar," she replied smoothly. "Carlton found out about his girlfriend's affairs, seduced her under the guise of working things out, and then killed her and dumped her body. Open-shut case." Molly paused slightly to look up at his face. "Am I right?"

"On all counts," he replied, though he felt utterly gobsmacked. _My God, she can actually use her brain and _think_ like a proper person._ Every single one of her deductions had been spot-on and all entirely accurate. "Quite impressive, Dr. Hooper."

"Well, after knowing you almost six years, I've picked up on your tricks," she answered, hands shoved in her pockets as they walked down the sidewalk towards St. Bart's hospital.

He glance down at once more. "Molly, if you have indeed honed your deduction skills so, why do you not use them to find yourself a suitable boyfriend, a possible partner?" he wondered; for some odd reason, he found that he actually _cared_ about that. But wait, why would it be of any import to him?

Molly shifted her gaze up to him, an almost exasperated look on her face as she studied him. It seemed as if he had said something wrong, but he couldn't think of where he'd gone wrong. At last, she shook her head and said, "Sherlock, I do post-mortems. I spend almost nine hours of my day in a room full of dead people, cutting open corpses. Not exactly a thing that makes a date feel warm and fuzzy inside. No matter how good I am at deducing, the moment I say that I work in a morgue, any 'potential partner' I might have makes a break for the door. Or a beautiful woman. Whichever is closer." She gave a little shrug and kept walking.

A frown crossed his face, trying to puzzle out how anybody could _not_ be interested in corpses. What better way was there to learn about the human anatomy than to cut open the body and study its insides? And who would think that she was not attractive? For some reason, the thought of someone rejecting her made his fists curl slightly, and somehow, he found his lips moving and words coming out, "But you are a-a beautiful...w-woman." Oh, damn, there was that childhood stutter. He watched as she turned to look at him, eyes scrutinising, and to his shock, he could feel a flush of heat rising to his neck and his ears.

Molly resisted the urge to smile as she saw Sherlock begin blushing. It was strange, the way he blushed. Unlike normal people, his cheeks didn't turn red, but rather, his ears and neck flushed pink instead. It was part of the reason why he let his hair grow long, even though it was unruly and riotously curly, and why he wore a scarf no matter what the weather and always turned his coat collar up. To hear him stammer as he complimented her and blush pink when he did so, she couldn't help but compare him to a schoolboy trying to talk to his crush. _My God, he really is getting better with emotions. May not be at mastery yet, but at least he's trying,_ she thought, allowing herself to smile up at him. She stood on her toes, tilted her head up, and pressed her lips to his cool cheek. "Thank you, Sherlock," she said quietly, and she feel his skin grow warm as his entire face flushed red.

As she walked away, Sherlock remained in place for a moment, watching his pathologist go, ponytail swishing with each step. His face felt uncharacteristically hot, and he began to deduce his own current state: _elevated pulse rate, excess amounts of blood in the face, ears, and neck..._. He glanced at Molly's back once more. He had not felt anything like this before; the closest he could come was how the Woman had made him feel tongue-tied that one time, but this was far more...potent. _What has that vixen done to me?_ he thought with a frown. But then he recalled the soft brush of her breath on his cheek, the gentle press of her lips to his skin, and a fresh surge of heat rushed up into his neck, and his ears felt as if they were burning. _Perhaps it is not entirely bad. This is better than nicotine._


End file.
